History has been used by politicians, special interest groups and others for propaganda throughout the ages. History is the most misunderstood subject and is used to manipulate people into war, harbor prejudices and continue practices that are not good for society.

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Friday, December 31, 2010

My prolonged absence from writing wasn't planned. Illness struck our household. First my son and then me. I will spare you the details of our sickness and I hope my blogger friends are feeling well. Now that I'm confident that everyone is on the mend, it is time to write.

While I was ill, I had some interesting dreams. I would blame the medicine I was taking , but I doubt antibiotics give you odd dreams. The real culprit was a book. Darn things...if you read to much, you are bound to have vivid dreams. At least that is my experience.

This particular dream was inspired by the book, The Great Arab Conquest by Hugh Kennedy. As the title suggests, the book chronicles the Arab conquest of the Middle East and North Africa during the 7th and 8th centuries. Before I began producing phlegm at a rate no human should, I read the chapter on the conquest of Egypt.

Before the Arab conquest, Egypt had been ruled by first the Greeks under the Ptolemies and then incorporated into the Roman Empire. By the time the Arabs invaded, Egypt was part of the Eastern Roman Empire, know as the Byzantine Empire. Like many areas of the Middle East and North Africa at the time, Egypt was heavily Christian and still has a sizable Christian minority to this day.

A Coptic church in Egypt

The Christians in Egypt, however, weren't considered Orthodox by the Patriarch of Constantinople. The Coptic (Egyptian) Christians and the Greek Christians differed on their views regarding Jesus. At the Council of Chalcedon in 451 AD, the bishops decided that Jesus had to distinct natures. He was both fully divine and fully human without the pesky sin thing getting in the way. The Coptic church, agreeing that Jesus was fully divine and human, however, believed that Jesus had only one nature.

For the modern reader, this difference doesn't seem big, but for the Patriarch of Constantinople, this was enough to label them heretics. Persecution of the Coptic Christians began. When the Arab armies swept through Egypt promising religious toleration to everyone who paid a special tax, the Coptic Christians jumped on the band wagon. Religious freedom is what they wanted and that's what they got for a century or two.

Whether my subconscious had formed an odd attachment to the Coptic Christians or my brain was drowning in mucus is hard to tell, but I dreamt that I was a monk at a Coptic monastery shortly before the Arab conquest. The odd thing about this dream was that while I was a monk, I was still a woman. Apparently this didn't bother anyone in my dream as we piously sang our morning vespers. Suddenly, we heard pots clanging, the earth rattling and a giant dust cloud closing in fast on our monastery.

"It's the Saracens," screamed the Abbott, "run." Yes, I admit the dialogue is a little stiff in my dreams. Maybe the Abbott should have said something like, "Hell's gates have opened and the Saracen is upon us. Run or Satan's serpent will snatch you." Seriously though, who would say that when their life was in danger?

The dream progresses as a run through the monastery searching for a way out. Screams and shrills follow me everywhere, but then I hear a distinct, "Mommy, Mommy." Thinking that I mothered an Arab child, I wake suddenly and hesitantly open my eyes. "Mommy, Mommy," said the voice innocently. I opened my eyes and instead of seeing an invader, I see my son. Not only was I glad that my son was feeling better, but that I wasn't around for the Arab conquest. Invading armies don't make good bed time stories.

Thursday, December 23, 2010

I have so many kind and encouraging followers and would like to thank you all for reading my blog. Like many bloggers, I'm taking Christmas Eve and day off. My son needs extra special cuddles and my husband needs some good food in his stomach. Ok, that was a little nauseating for many of you. Regardless, I will be back after the holiday, as fresh and feisty as ever.

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Where's my motivation? I lost it somewhere, perhaps behind the sofa or maybe the closet. No... the closet is to messy, it must be behind the sofa. No, not the sofa. I did find some Cheerios through. How long have those been there? Maybe my son hid it in the organ petal, because that's where he hides important things like car keys, rosaries and my library card. Nope, not there. I guess I'll just have to motivate myself.

For the past couple of weeks, my son has been walking around the house, with his belly slightly protruding, saying "Wenceslas." Mind you he is only 20 months and he's probably trying to say applesauce, but I think I'll take this word and run with it. Sometimes you just have to take inspiration wherever you can get it. Besides, my son is so cute when he's saying it.

While the name may be hard to pronounce, many people are familiar with the Christmas carol "Good King Wenceslas." Written in 1853 by John Mason Neale, it is the only carol that doesn't mention the nativity, the incarnation of Christ, nothing. Below are the lyrics, hum and sing it, but don't leave just yet.

Good King Wenceslas looked out
On the feast of Stephen
When the snow lay round about
Deep and crisp and even
Brightly shone the moon that night
Though the frost was cruel
When a poor man came in sight
Gath'ring winter fuel

"Hither, page, and stand by me
If thou know'st it, telling
Yonder peasant, who is he?
Where and what his dwelling?"
"Sire, he lives a good league hence
Underneath the mountain
Right against the forest fence
By Saint Agnes' fountain."

"Bring me flesh and bring me wine
Bring me pine logs hither
Thou and I will see him dine
When we bear him thither."
Page and monarch forth they went
Forth they went together
Through the rude wind's wild lament
And the bitter weather

"Sire, the night is darker now
And the wind blows stronger
Fails my heart, I know not how,
I can go no longer."
"Mark my footsteps, my good page
Tread thou in them boldly
Thou shalt find the winter's rage
Freeze thy blood less coldly."

In his master's steps he trod
Where the snow lay dinted
Heat was in the very sod
Which the Saint had printed
Therefore, Christian men, be sure
Wealth or rank possessing
Ye who now will bless the poor
Shall yourselves find blessing

King Wenceslas

So who is King Wenceslas? What does he have to do with Christmas? When is the feast of Stephen? The latter questions are the easiest to answer, since the feast of St. Stephen, celebrating Christianity's first martyr, is celebrated on December 26th. Since the feast of St. Stephen falls on the day after Christmas, it is sung as a Christmas carol. Or at least that's what a quick Google search has yielded.

Good King Wenceslas or St. Wenceslas, was the Duke of Bohemia (present day Czech Republic) and martyred for his faith by his pagan brother, Boleslaw. Born in 903 AD, Bohemia and its surrounding regions were in the process of converting to Christianity. While St. Wenceslas' grandmother was a Christian, his immediate family was not. Undeterred by his villainous mother after his father's death, he invited German missionaries to Bohemia, encouraged his subjects to convert and reformed the judicial system to favor the poor.

Since St. Wenceslas submitted to German rule and was a Christian, his brother Boleslaw and pagan nobles plotted against him. On September 28th, while he was praying at church, Boleslaw and his gang murdered St. Wenceslas. Oddly this is how many saints die, praying at church, slaughtered by a prince or a king. Whether St. Wenceslas died while praying or not, his life and love for the poor has been immortalized by a Christmas carol and my cute son. Merry Christmas.

Monday, December 20, 2010

Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt isn't the type of book you read at Christmas. In this haunting memoir, McCourt relives his childhood in a Limericak slum where his siblings die from disease, his father drinks away all of the family's money and insists that each child swear he will die for Ireland. Meanwhile, Frank's mother is chronically pregnant, depressed and unable to care for her young children. As early as age three, McCourt must watch his younger brother Malachy.

Life in Ireland has never been easy and during the depression life was even harder. While many who knew McCourt during his childhood, think Angela's Ashes is full of Blarney (lies), the book has the best confession I've ever read. Frank has just received his first communion and his ecstatic grandmother wants to make him breakfast. Frank, however, wants nothing to do with this and wants to join his friends at the "Collection." What follows is hysterical and it doesn't matter if McCourt is full of it. As long as the story is good, I'll take his blarney Thank you Simon and Schuster for the except. Laugh and enjoy!

The food churned in my stomach. I gagged. I ran to her backyard and threw it all up. Out she came.
Look at what he did. Thrun up his First Communion breakfast. Thrun up the body and blood of Jesus. I have God in me backyard. What am I goin' to do? I'll take him to the Jesuits for they know the sins of the Pope himself.
She dragged me through the streets of Limerick. She told the neighbors and passing strangers about God in her backyard. She pushed me into the confession box.
In the name of the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's a day since my last confession.
A day? And what sins have you committed in a day, my child?
I overslept. I nearly missed my First Communion. My grandmother said I have standing up, North of Ireland, Presbyterian hair. I threw up my First Communion breakfast. Now Grandma says she has God in her backyard and what should she do.
The priest is like the First Confession priest. He has the heavy breathing and the choking sounds.
Ah...ah...tell your grandmother to wash God away with a little water and for your penance say one Hail Mary and one Our Father. Say a prayer for me and God bless you, my child.
Grandma and Mam were waiting close to the confession box. Grandma said, Were you telling jokes to that priest in the confession box? If 'tis a thing I ever find out you were telling jokes to Jesuits I'll tear the bloody kidneys outa you. Now what did he say about God in my backyard?
He said wash Him away with a little water, Grandma.
Holy water or ordinary water?
He didn't say, Grandma.
Well, go back and ask him.
But, Grandma...
She pushed me back into the confessional.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, it's a minute since my last confession.
A minute! Are you the boy that was just here?
I am, Father.
What is it now?
My grandma says, Holy water or ordinary water?
Ordinary water, and tell your grandmother not to be bothering me again.
I told her, Ordinary water, Grandma, and he said don't be bothering him again.
Don't be bothering him again. That bloody ignorant bogtrotter

Thursday, December 16, 2010

For all you ladies out there, Elena from Tea at Trianon recommends the website BlogHer. It provides woman specific advertising and on your website and access to countless women bloggers. For more information, please click on the link below.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

When I was five, I first realized that not everyone celebrates Christmas. The day started innocently enough, while we were visiting my grandparents for Christmas. Since I was so excited for Christmas, my parents suggested I run some errands with my grandparents. Thinking it would make time go faster, I eagerly accepted. We bought some delicious cookies at the grocery store, filled up the gas tank and stopped at the local Jewish Community Center (JCC) to pay for next year's water aerobics classes. The JCC is the Jewish equivalent to the Christian YMCA and provides fitness classes to the general public.

While we were leaving, I noticed the absence of a Christmas tree. Confused, I asked my grandmother why the JCC didn't have a Christmas tree? My grandmother, a blunt Irish woman in a hurry said, "Haven't your parents taught you anything? Jews don't celebrate Christmas." This was shocking for a five year old, who was growing up in the heavily Protestant Midwest. It was like someone told me Santa Claus didn't exist. "Those poor Jewish children," I cried as I got into the car, "Santa doesn't bring them presents." My grandmother, who was never the sympathetic type, told me to "buck up."

When I got back to my grandparent's house, my grandmother calmly explained to my parents why I was crying. I told them I was sad for all the Jewish children that didn't get presents on Christmas and wanted to start a toy drive like I saw on television. My mother is a gentler soul and told me that the Jews didn't believe in Jesus, so that's why they don't celebrate Christmas. "Don't worry," she said gently, "Jewish children get presents on Hanukkah." Looking back, I'm applaud by my materialistic views of Christmas, but knowing that Jewish children also got presents in December made me feel better. After all, I felt it was only fair that all children should get presents.

"No Christmas for you!"~pretend quote from Oliver Cromwell

Later in life when I began studying history in earnest, I realized there were Christians that didn't celebrate Christmas. Besides..."What the Heck" (never scream this in a library), I was appalled by the prudish Puritans, who in the 16th and 17th centuries didn't celebrate Christmas. As a matter of fact, Oliver Cromwell, a Puritan and the English Parliament, outlawed the celebration of Christmas after the English Civil War. Cooking goose was banned, caroling and decorations such as holly were also outlawed. Christmas under Cromwell was a dismal affair. (For those of you who are not familiar with beliefs of the Puritans, please read my previous post; These Ain't Your Mama's Puritans.

So what possible reason could Oliver Cromwell and his cronies have for banning Christmas? According to the book America's Forgotten Founding Father by Francis Bremer, the Puritans loathed Christmas because it had become to commercialized. While Santa wasn't appearing at malls and department stores weren't pressuring parents to purchase the latest toys, the Christmas celebrations of 16th and 17th century were full of drunkenness, gluttony and sexual misconduct. Not only did Oliver Cromwell and his followers want to stop this behavior, but they felt that Christmas didn't even have no scriptural bases. Yes, Jesus' birth is in the Bible, but the Christmas was started in the fourth century to Christianize the winter solstice. Therefore, some Puritans felt that Christians shouldn't be celebrating this drunken, pagan holiday.

Have a Merry Winthrop Christmas.

Not all Puritans, however, wanted to ban the celebration outright. John Winthrop, the leader of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, hated the licentious behavior he witnessed during Christmas. Instead of banning Christmas in the new Massachusetts Bay Colony, however, he encouraged a day of fasting and prayer. Through prayer and fasting, Winthrop reminded his fellow Puritans the true meaning of Christmas, the birth of Jesus Christ.

Does any of this sound familiar? During the Christmas season, we are constantly bombarded by the conflicting meanings of Christmas. Retailers want us to buy more, while religious leaders want us to reflect on the birth of Jesus Christ. The over commercialization of Christmas makes many people sick, so it's no wonder that the Puritans felt they had to take drastic measures. While I don't believe we should ban Christmas, John Winthrop's Christmas filled with prayer and fasting has some attraction: Less stress and more focus on the birth of our savior. So if you celebrate Christmas, I hope you have a Merry Winthrop Christmas.

Later today I will be discussing Christians who don't celebrate Christmas. Elena at "Tea at Trianon" has already begun the discussion on the Puritans banning Christmas during the Interregnum period. I would like to say that great minds think alike, but she's quite superior to me. Enjoy!

My panettone, an Italian sweet bread with dried fruit served at Christmas, is rising. I must admit, I am a little nervous. The starter was dry this morning, because I left it on the radiator all night. After I put some water on it, the starter began to bubble, so hopefully my bread will turn out alright.

Christmas has many wonderful traditions and baking special foods is only the beginning. I remember my great grandmother, who was from southern Italy, made hairy spaghetti, calamari and an assortment of Christmas cookies for Christmas Eve. The smell of anchovies (it's what makes the spaghetti hairy), fish and sugar, lingered throughout the house. The blending of the smells was never offensive, with it being just enough to make anyone begin to salivate.

My great grandmother never made panettone, at least not from what I remember. My father remembers his aunt baking it one year, but the bread never became a family staple. Since panettone originated in the northern city of Milan, it wasn't popular in Naples at the turn of the last century. While I still plan on serving hairy spaghetti for Christmas Eve, I'm hoping panettone will become a new family tradition.

"I will save you from destitution with bread!"~Ughetto

Like many traditional foods, panettone has several legends on how it came into being. My favorite one is a love story between Ughetto (love the name), a Milan nobleman and poor baker's daughter, Adalgisa. According to the legend, the bakery was struggling to survive, when Ughetto, pretending to be a mere apprentice to be closer to his love, invented a sweet bread with currents, raisins and dried citrons. This new bread was a huge success, the bakery survived and Ughetto and Adalgisa married. Who doesn't like a story like that?

Panettone, however, probably wasn't invented by a single person, but evolved over the ages. According to the Gourmet Traveler, panettone has its origins in ancient Rome. Leavened bread was often sweetened with honey during Roman times and this tradition continued in Italy throughout the Middle Ages. Eventually in 16th century Milan, eggs, butter and dried fruit were added to the sweetened bread. Since this bread contained expensive fruits, it was made primarily at Christmas to show off a person's wealth. Yea... I liked the first story better. It actually sounds more Italian, but I digress...

While panettone was popular in northern Italy, it took two rival bakers, Angelo Motta and Gioacchino Alemagna, to make panettone popular throughout Italy. In the beginning of the 20th century, both bakers began producing the bread commercially throughout Italy and it became an instant sensation. Today, panettone is a Christmas staple throughout Italy and where ever Italian immigrants have settled. If you decide to make it, I recommend King Arthur Flour's recipe. It has been Americanized, because not many Americans eat dried citron and peels. Their recipe, however, is easy to follow and all of their recipes have been tested by expert. In my next post I'll tell you how it turned out. Wish me luck!

Thursday, December 9, 2010

When I was a little girl, I attended my catechism religiously. Since I was born after Vatican II, Catholic saints took a back seat to other practices, but I still found myself learning about St. Patrick who brought Christianity to Ireland, St. Francis who gave everything he had to the poor and the Virgin Mary who willingly gave birth to God's son.

The purpose of saints, I was taught, was to show Catholics that anyone could live a life of faith. Unlike Jesus, who was divine, saints were human and subject to the same human flaws we all have. If they could give everything to the poor and remain faithful when persecuted for their faith, we should be able to as well. This seemed logical when I was ten, but as I grew older, the more inadequate saints made me feel.

Take the example of St. Francis, who was born into a wealthy family and gave up everything to live like a poor man. He started the Franciscan order and gained the attention of the future St. Claire, founder of the poor Claire's. St. Francis and his friars preached the gospel to the common people and sinners of their day. Unlike other monastic houses of the time, the Franciscans didn't rely on the sale of crops or donations to support their community. They begged for their bread and relied on God's providence wherever they went.

St. Francis' life was commendable, but how could a person like me ever live up to that standard? I'm materialistic, like good food, am sickly and while I'm generous with my money, I could never give it all away. Until college I never felt that being saintly was an option, because the bar had been set to high.

"Theresa, I would like to introduce you to my friend St. Augustine."~quote from my college professor

That's until I met St. Augustine. Before taking a Medieval history class, I had never heard of the man before, but instantly took a strong interest in him. Born during the waning years of the Roman Empire, Augustine was born in present day Tunisia. While his mother St. Monica was a devote Christian, his father was a pagan. For much of his youth, Augustine had a typical Roman upbringing. He studied Latin, philosophy and rhetoric, went to the bath houses, picked up women and even had a mistress and illegitimate child. Now, how's that for saintly behavior? While St. Augustine eventually converted and lived a more pious life, this shows that saints began just like us.

Unsaintly behavior, however, can occur at any point in a saint's life, as demonstrated in my previous post, "Behave or Santa Will Slap You?" St. Nicholas was the bishop of Myra and attend the famous Council of Nicaea. Ordered by the first Christian Emperor Constantine, the consul was to settle the doctrinal disputes of the day and create a uniform Christian creed. A man named Arius promoted the belief that Jesus wasn't God, which enraged good old St. Nick. Out of a fit of passion, St. Nicholas slapped Arius (very unsaintly behavior) and was removed from the council by Emperor Constantine.

"I want to suck...the puss from that wound."~pretend quote from Catherine of Sienna

Not only did saints behave poorly, some even had mental problems. Catherine of Sienna, born in 1347 in Italy, advised kings and popes, cared for the sick and ate the lice and sucked the pus from leapers. Yea...that last part is a little weird. Obviously Catherine didn't suffer from an obsessive-compulsive disorder, but something much more troubling. What ever her illness, the Medieval world viewed it as another aspect of her saintliness.

Much like other historical figures, such as Anne Boleyn, Mary, Queen of Scots and the Puritans, saints were multidimensional people showing great devotion to God and the poor, but quick to sin like the rest of us. Knowing that saints had violent tempers, sexual desires and metal illnesses makes them more real and accessible. It seems to me, that some of the greatest sinners, make the best saints.

Monday, December 6, 2010

Most of us know that Santa Claus was inspired by a true person, a bishop named Nicholas of Myra. Apparently Nicholas' behavior wasn't always saintly, because at the Council of Nicaea he slapped Arius. Arius was the founder of the heresy Arianism and proclaimed that Jesus wasn't God. Nicholas, irritated beyond belief, slapped Arius. Below is a link to the story. Beware of Santa; he can get cranky.

Sunday, December 5, 2010

The blog "Tea at Trianon" shared this first, but it is a very powerful and thought provoking article on AIDS prevention from a Jesuit missionary. I don't know the answers to the AIDS epidemic in Africa. I wish I did. I hate suffering. Read if you are so inclined.

Saturday, December 4, 2010

I like Jasper Tudor. He was the uncle of the Henry VII, son of Catherine Valois and Owen Tudor, an able warrior and brilliant strategist. His political prow less and military experience helped his nephew become king, end the War of the Roses and start the Tudor dynasty. These are ample reasons to respect him, but I'm not fond of him for these reasons. It may sound absurd, even irrational, but I like his name!

Not that Jasper is a particular good name, but the fact that it isn't common in history makes it sound more agreeable to my ears. History is full of Henries, Georges, Elizabeths and Catherines, which makes keeping track of who's who even more daunting. Henry VIII married three Catherines and two Annes. George is the name of several English kings, a President and someone else I can't think of right now. As for the name Henry, don't get me started. Countless English, French, German and Holy Roman Emperors were named Henry.

One of the many Henries throughout history.

Getting confused with all the Henries, Georges, Catherines and Elizabeths in history is hard enough for historians, but for lay people it's even more confusing. Was it Henry VI or V that won the Battle of Agincourt, or who was the first King George that could speak English? When I taught a history class years back at a local community college, I often had to pause briefly to make sure I was attaching the right number to the king's name. If I had problems at times, no wonder my students couldn't keep track of who was who.

So I ask all mothers and fathers out there, who plan on placing their children in the history books: Please, please, please, give your child a unique name like Jasper. It would make the world much easier and history less confusing if you did.

Friday, December 3, 2010

I blame my parents. I'm a product of a mixed marriage: my mother is Evangelical and my father Catholic. While I was raised and remain a Catholic to this day, I would definitely say I have Protestant tendencies. I guess this happens to the best of us. These Protestant tendencies have made the idea of a pope a little uncomfortable for me. So like the bad Catholic that I am, I usually don't get excited when the pope says something. For me it's like a Charlie Brown episode: when the Pope speaks and all I hear is, "mwa mwa mwa."

This changed recently when I read numerous good reviews about the Pope's new book, "Light of the World: The Pope, The Church and The Signs Of The Times,”written by journalist Peter Seewald and Pope Benedict himself. On the day it came out, I went to the library, confident that I would get a copy. The joke was on me, because all of the library's copies were checked out! Apparently I wasn't the only one interested in the Pope's opinions on woman clergy, dialogue with Islam, the clergy sex abuse scandal and condom use in AIDS prevention.

While I'm on the "waiting list," I feel like I'm waiting for Christmas to come. So if anyone out in the blogosphere has read the book, please comment on whether you enjoyed the book and some of the highlights. In the meantime, I must learn that patience is a virtue.

Thursday, December 2, 2010

We've all thought it. You see a good looking woman holding the hand of an ugly man and think," how did that happen?" Maybe the man is rich, charming or had her drink a love potion, why else would she be with him? I often feel bad after thinking this, because I was being extremely judgemental. But admit it, I'm not alone.

A few weeks ago I was reading a blog about Henry VIII's ancestry. Sadly I don't remember the blog's name, however, it provided me a glimpse into Catherine Valois and Owen Tudor's love story. Owen Tudor, a mere squire, but descended from Welsh royalty, somehow married the Dowager Queen Catherine Valois during the War of the Roses. Yea...how did that happen?

Catherine Valois

While Owen Tudor was handsome, Catherine Valois, daughter of Charles VI of France and Elizabeth of Bavaria, was clearly out of his league. Born in 1401, Catherine was betrothed to Henry V of England after the famous Battle ofAgincourt. Henry V was taken by her beauty and she seemed happy enough with the marriage. Henry was a great military leader, the King of England, future King of France and didn't suffer from a debilitating mental illness like her father.They married in 1420 and in December of 1421, had a son Henry VI.

Shortly after Henry's birth, Catherine would become a widow at the age of 21. The Duke of Gloucester, Henry VI's official protector, didn't want the newly widowed Catherine to remarry. She was young, pretty and the mother of the future king, which made her dangerous. Many men desired to marry her and influence the future king of England.

Gloucester, however, wasn't about to let this happen and had Parliament pass a law that forbade the remarriage of dowager queens unless they had the king's permission. The chances of Catherine remarrying were now about as good as Hell freezing over, because the penalty for breaking this law was death. A little dramatic, but that's how they did things in the Middle Ages. So Catherine Valois, the young, beautiful dowager queen was left with a cold bed.

Not Owen Tudor, but Henry VIII. No known pictures of Owen Tudor exist, so I used his great grandson's portrait.

Reading like a romance novel enters Owen Tudor, who's father escaped Wales to avoid murder charges. Unlike his father, Tudor had a respectable career, first fighting for the King of England in France and later as the courtier for Henry VI. Sometime after Henry V's death, Tudor was made Clerk of the Wardrobe for Catherine Valois. How their affair started and when, has been debated for centuries, however it was believed their romance began at Windsor castle.

The walls of Windsor Castle. If they could talk, what would they say?

They secretly married, had children (one of which was the grandfather of Henry VII) and died tragic deaths. Catherine died in childbirth, while Owen was arrested for treason. Henry VI, however, pardoned Owen and later put him in command of his forces during the War of the Roses. Tudor's death would ultimately be at the hands of Edward, Earl of March after the battle of Battle of Mortimer's Cross. Before Owen Tudor was executed he said, "the head which used to lie in Queen Catherine's lap would now lie in the executioner's basket." A fitting end to one of history's most intriguing love affairs.